A/N: This idea has been bugging me ever since I saw the movie. It made Pitch sympathetic (at least, to me it did) and yet it curb stomped him. Even Jack pushed him away, which REALLY bothered me, because Pitch Black is the shadow side of Jack Frost.
I do not own the movie Rise of the Guardians, but I do own what I've written.
The sound of laughter was like sharp little stones hitting his skin. This one stupid brat's giggling especially – high and bright, fire sparks crackling into his dark. They burned him, leaving pockmarks on his face and hands. Pitch hissed and sank into the shadows.
He reappeared a moment later, stepping in front of the giggling girl. "Shut up!" he snarled. The little girl continued to laugh as she walked through him. Pitch's face twisted. He spun and tried in vain to grasp at her and drag her back into fear.
The strands of her hair fell through his fingers like he wasn't there.
Pitch felt something hot and sick rise through his chest and into his throat; he clapped a hand to his mouth and swallowed the bile, wincing. "They're not afraid of me," he whispered when he could speak again. He took a step backward and staggered. "They really can't see me."
He clutched at his chest, fingers scrabbling at the black fabric. His breath came in short, stuttering gasps. His dark hair fell back as looked upward and gazed helplessly at the moon.
His voice cracked.
"I've become a ghost!"
He should of accepted it long ago, so damnably long ago, when he had gone to terrorize a village to find –
There had been something off about this village. It had taken Pitch a while to put his finger on it. There, he had it.
It was too warm. People here laughed too often, smiled too much. Their cheeks were far too rosy. Too many hands were held, too many hugs given. Too many children twirled in place and looked up with great big gap-toothed grins.
Well, he would soon fix that.
Pitch walked into the village, knowing that the mere sight of him would cause people to tremble and draw their children closer. It was what he expected; it was what was what he was reborn to do. He leered at a little boy, but the kid toddled on, ignoring him. Miffed, Pitch crouched in front of the brat and snarled, "Boo!"
And the little boy walked through him.
Pitch stood up abruptly, unnerved. He touched the side of his face as if to reassure himself of his existence. His skin was clammy.
What the hell was that?
He shook his head. Maybe it was just a fluke.
Doubt prickled.
Someone should have screamed by now. Maybe they couldn't see him.
No, he laughed. Impossible. He was fear itself; everyone cowered before him!
He leaped in front of the nearest man, his pale hands curled into claws. "Fear me!" he roared.
The man did not look afraid in the least. Instead, he continued chatting quite happily with his wife as he stepped through the embodiment of his fears.
Pitch shuddered. Again, a flash of heat as he was passed through, like a moment of fever. And when it was gone, he felt so cold. So damnably cold. Eyes wide, Pitch turned tail and ran, tripping on the hem of his cloak as he went.
He shivered for want of warmth.
Pitch shrank into the shadows, his head in his hands. His face was ashen. Amber eyes gazed upward through the gaps in his fingers.
His lip began to curl.
Fine. If no one could see him, then...
"I'll just have to make them see."
The Boogeyman rose to his full height and shook his fist at the moon.
"I'll make them regret forgetting their fear!" he shouted. The darkness around him grew wild, twining around his legs like a cat. "They will learn to forsake their hopes, their dreams, their wonder, and even their memories in fear of me! I'll grow strong and soon there will be nothing but the cold darkness!"
In a voice not unlike a wail, the Boogeyman screamed his parting words:
"I'll become everything to them!"